


born under an ill-placed design

by cosmicpoet



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 14:05:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18624763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/pseuds/cosmicpoet
Summary: Komaeda can't access his medication on Jabberwock Island, in the middle of the Killing Game. He just wants to die, but Hinata has to check up on him.





	born under an ill-placed design

There’s a symphony inside Komaeda’s head, relentless and restless, driving him away from sleep. A force against the lids of his eyes, propelling them open as if his whole body is a ship doomed to sink, predestined for some hopeless iceberg, and the navigation of watching is merely a helpless taunt - to see, without changing. To feel hope, without inspiring it. This he knows. This he has always known. And as such, there’s nothing on this island that can convince him against the simple fact that he deserves this, deserves all of this, deserves to fall from a grace he will never achieve, and to die unknown and unloved, never having fulfilled all he thought he was worth in the world.

He will never stoop so low as to beg. In fact, keeping his predicament a secret is the only thing that keeps him afloat, with the knowledge that he might be disgusting, _worthless,_ but he refuses to give the Ultimates around him another reason to think of him as such. Still, each morning, when the door to his cottage is firmly locked behind him and there’s no danger of being seen, he crushes his hands into fists and punches his reflection in the mirror, a strange liminality between wanting to destroy the face he sees staring back at him, and the misfortune that the pain only bleeds from his knuckles. And yet, he checks behind the glass each time, hoping that there’ll be something inside to numb all of this. Begging for the medication which he is surely feeling the lack of. And there’s no doubt that Monokuma - or the mastermind of this game - knows them all intimately, has traced the lines of fate on their palms, so the only conclusion to be drawn is that even the Ultimate Despair thinks him not worthy enough to survive.

In truth, he accepted his death long before either of his diagnoses settled in. And that isn’t the issue here - or, rather, it _is_ an issue, but not the most pressing one. Whilst months left to live may not seem much to anyone else, he’s clinging onto them and hoping that something else finishes him off first, the desperate plea for his death to mean something, and for him to die with a smile on his face. Besides this, there’s the problem of the antidepressants, the absence of which is pushing on his chest with each day that passes. It’s not quite withdrawal, but he’d be a liar of even worse dimensions than he already is if he were to say that he didn’t tear the cottage, market, and later, the pharmacy apart in desperate need for anything to help him exist. He’s thankful, at least, that none of the people he admires have asked him about this.

He’s unsure if he could bring himself to lie.

So, this morning is no different to any other. He hits the mirror, fracturing the glass further. With each day that passes, his reflection becomes more obscured, more disgusting, and he will never blame this on the cracked glass. In response to the man that stares him down from beyond the universe, he pulls his hands inward, trying to invert himself, and pushes against his protruding ribs until the pain mingles flesh and bone, and he’s not sure where he ends and the world begins. How many are already dead? He counts on his fingers - Togami, Hanamura, Koizumi, Pekoyama. Four people who taunt him as ghosts, the wisps of ache against his lips when he runs his voice hoarse against the night, daring someone to kill him, a taunt that reeks of begging and desperation and jealousy for those whom he could watch die.

It’s all for hope. He’s always known this, so much ingrained in his life that he no longer needs to question the intricacies of what he believes in. Sometimes, it’s all he can hold onto, the tantalising idea that he imagines and clings to in the sweet moments before sleep, of the day he will die, and how beautiful it will be to go. He chooses not to believe in the afterlife, all those Catholic tales of Hell and how it will taunt him for being the way he is, for the crime of loving those as himself - the thought burns him already, the question of whether he can even lay claim to such an identity, being that he hates _himself,_ but cannot bring himself to feel anything but love and admiration for other men. 

No. When he dies, he’ll just…die. He deserves that much, in a twisted way.

So much has sunk into his mind that he almost cares about the blood dripping from his fists, before he jolts back to reality and remembers that this is supposed to be normal.

There’s a knock on his cottage door. Panicking, he runs to check that it’s locked, but falls just beside the door, making a thud as his head hits the hard wood.

“Komaeda?”

It’s Hinata’s voice. He knows that, because he’d recognise it anywhere, in any life. Instinctively, he clasps his hands over his mouth, trying not to even breathe; he doesn’t want Hinata to see him this way.

“I know you’re in there,” Hinata continues, “why aren’t you at breakfast?”

“I…overslept.”

“Well, can I come in? I saved you some food.”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“Stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Just…this. Open the door, Komaeda.”

“I’m…uh…I’m getting dressed.”

“I’ll wait.”

“You really don’t need to.”

“I said I’ll wait, Komaeda.”

He tries to stand, despite the dizziness that overcomes his head. He must have hit it harder than he initially thought, and it’s just now that he realises he hasn’t had any food or water in a few days. When five minutes pass, each moment punctuated by Hinata’s voice, he tries to do the best damage control that he can, shoving his bloody hand into his pocket and opening the door.

“Finally,” Hinata says, walking inside, “what’s up with you?”

“I’m just tired,” Komaeda laughs, “I suppose it’s expected of someone like me to let you all down again.”

“Will you just quit it? I brought you breakfast.”

“Thank you.”

“Well? Aren’t you going to eat it?”

“I’m…not hungry.”

“Why’s your hand in your pocket?”

“What?”

“I’m not a complete idiot, Komaeda. What’s up?”

Hinata grabs Komaeda’s arm before he can pull himself backwards, revealing the blood and the mess. Komaeda closes his eyes, pursing his lips and trying to think of any excuses that he can come up with, whilst Hinata holds his fist in his open palm. He turns Komaeda’s hand over, tracing the intricacies of the blood and cuts, his fingers light and worrisome; even with his eyes closed, Komaeda can imagine Hinata’s face at such a revelation. It’s both comforting and terrifying, to imagine the pity in his eyes.

“How did this happen?”

“I fell,” Komaeda says.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I slipped in the bathroom and fell into the mirror. I broke my fall with my hand.”

“Please don’t lie to me,” Hinata says, walking into the bathroom, “because that’s an awful lot of damage for one fall. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get first aid stuff.”

“For a little cut? Really, Hinata, you worry far too much.”

Hinata merely rolls his eyes and leaves the cottage. Komaeda debates locking the door and killing himself before Hinata gets back, but truthfully, he just doesn’t have any energy left. The time passes him by like his life has, meaninglessly, and without giving him a chance to leave a mark. And then Hinata is opening the door, and Komaeda is closing his eyes and wishing that the ground would swallow him up, and he’s hating himself more and more because there are tears falling from his eyes and they have nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with the pain in his hand.

“It’s alright,” Hinata says, sitting down next to him on the edge of the bed, “it looks like it hurts.”

“It doesn’t.”

He takes Komaeda’s hand in his, gently running his fingers along the wound. When Komaeda winces, Hinata stalls, trying to look him in the eyes.

Komaeda turns away.

Hinata softly pours clean water over the cuts, inspecting them as he picks remnants of glass out of the flesh. Of course it hurts, but Komaeda likes it, feels like he deserves it, and he leans into it like the feeling of crisp water against exposed bone is substitute enough for physical contact. When Hinata holds his hand, trying to pull out small shards of glass with tweezers, Komaeda instinctively pulls his hand back, sinking the metal into flesh and deepening the wound.

“I’m sorry,” Hinata says.

“Don’t. It was intentional.”

“What?”

“Just…ignore it, okay?”

“I’m not going to ignore any part of you.”

Sick with love and discontent, Komaeda closes his eyes again as tears well and then fall down, fat and full against his sunken cheeks. Hinata leans in and wipes them away, his hand resting on Komaeda’s cheek for a few moments.

He opens his eyes to see Hinata fumbling with bandages, wrapping them gently around his hands. It’s a beautiful sight to see the blood seep through the fabric, and he sighs in admiration - there are parts of him aching to be free of this disgusting body, and he wants to be the drops of blood that finally make it out of this Hell.

And then Hinata is done, and he’s pressing a gentle kiss against the bandages.

“All better,” he says.

“Yeah,” Komaeda echoes.

“You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You must be. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your absence at meals.”

“Ah, an Ultimate like you missing someone like me?”

“Quit it. You’re just as important as anyone else here.”

“I don’t even wish that were true.”

“Stop it.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. Don’t be.”

Komaeda tries to resist the urge to rip off the bandages and dig his fingers into the cuts on his knuckles. His fingers twitch with the desperation to mutilate himself, and Hinata notices this - he holds Komaeda’s hands down, looking him in the eyes like he’s trying to find answers that even Komaeda himself doesn’t know.

“I don’t get it,” Hinata says, “why? Why do you hate yourself so much?”

“I…I…”

“I know it’s forward to ask. But I just don’t understand.”

“How can you not understand? I’m worthless. I’m only useful to further the hope of you Ultimates, and I’m still alive, so I’ve failed at even the basic task of dying.”

“Please…just stop it. Can’t you see I care about you?”

“Really, Hinata, you have awful taste.”

“Shut up! Stop thinking of yourself as worthless.”

“But I _am.”_

“Not to me you’re not!”

“I can’t believe you.”

“Then let me prove it.”

“How?”

“May I?” Hinata says, tracing Komaeda’s lips with his thumb. Gently, like he’s terrified of messing up, he leans in, and Komaeda finds that impulse guides him, rather than the rationality of knowing that he deserves nothing, until they’re kissing, and he’s liking it, and he’s hating himself for dragging Hinata down, and he’s kissing him, and he’s _kissing him,_ and his hands are on Hinata’s cheeks and he’s in love, he’s in love, he’s in love.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Komaeda says.

“Why?”

“You deserve…better.”

“And what about what I _want?_ What if I want you?”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Let me show you,” Hinata says, mapping Komaeda’s jawline with his fingertips, so gently, as if he fears he might break him. Slowly, he begins to hug him, until they’re both together and Komaeda is fearing the moment they’ll have to separate. With his face buried into Komaeda’s shoulder, Hinata whispers something, so intangible that it almost becomes lost forever to the testament of time. “I don’t want you to die.”

It’s so simple. But it’s so _forever._ The fact that someone - not just someone, but an Ultimate - wants him to be alive is too much for Komaeda to handle. He’s crying more, now, and he buries his face into Hinata, wanting the tears not to be shown, but begging for some comfort.

Hinata knows this. Hinata holds him. Hinata plays with his hair and kisses his temple.

“Believe me yet?”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday Komaeda!
> 
> Title from 'How The West Was Won And Where It Got Us' by R.E.M.


End file.
